There Are Days
by Allegrezza
Summary: "It's your fault, though. I never wanted to be king," he'll tell her the nights he closes his eyes, feeling her familiar form cradled to his. She doesn't answer, but he doesn't expect her to. For some reason, she hasn't been saying much these days at all.


There are days when Alistair can go for several hours without thinking of _her_. His beloved Hero of Ferelden, his junior Warden, the love of his life. Sometimes, he can listen to the nobles and councilmen without having his gaze drift out the window or over their heads. Sometimes, Anora's hand on his arm is enough to remind him that he has a duty, that he's filled this position for a reason and he should concentrate all of his effort on it. Those days are few and far between.

"It's your fault, though. I never wanted to be king," he'll tell her the nights he closes his eyes, feeling her familiar form cradled to his. She doesn't answer, but he doesn't expect her to. Even on their nights on the road, nothing could wake his beautiful Warden from her rest except the loud sounds of a battle or the barking of her faithful mabari. "It was for the best, I know. But sometimes I wish you'd just have let Anora be queen by herself. She's alright at it you, you know. Now that someone has finally let her actually rule something."

She doesn't answer, she never does, but that's okay, he knows her so well anyway. Sometimes, it's easier to imagine her responses himself.

* * *

It is on the practice fields he feels most comfortable within the palace. The soldiers let him be there, and the nobles don't complain. He thinks they might like the fact that he has a distraction to keep him from their council meetings. A Warden, king or not, doesn't let himself get out of shape, and old habits die hard.

This is where he feels like it's just old times. She doesn't spar with him- she rarely did, even on the road, their skills were too different to make for fair bouts- but he feels her watching, catching his mistake in that parry but giving him a chance to correct it before calling him out on it. Always understanding. Her presence soothes him and the familiar motions put him at ease. He can see her grin as he finishes his routine, knows she likes to watch him train, remembers how he always used to tease her for staring and would threaten to carry her off into her tent if she didn't stop being so distracting.

One such comment is on his tongue now- it would make her smile, his stupid jokes always did- and he turns to make it, but she's not there. Probably called away, he decides, sighing as he returns to beating his dummy. Heroes don't get much downtime, after all.

* * *

He sees them whisper sometimes, in the halls, before he comes upon them. He catches glances sometimes from the banns or the teyrns, the eyes that watch him searchingly. They do not trust him. They do not want him here, meddling with their machinations and scheming. To them he is an imposter, a bastard with only half the proper blood and none of the proper upbringing. He ignores them. The people on the streets, the ones who support his reign so exuberantly, who honor him as a stopper of the Blight, the maker of peace, their Warden, they are ones who matter.

He knows this, because when he steps out of the castle- though those times are rare, for his nobles and his queen seem inclined to keeping him trapped within its walls, within the stone prison that, no matter how elaborately decorated, will always be nothing but a gilded cage to him- they flock to him. They follow with cheers, for days, weeks, months after it is over and the archdemon is dead. He is not the one who dealt the final blow, but he is the one who is among them now, and they are eager to have someone to shower with their praise. He is well-liked there, and he enjoys the attention. It's a nice distraction from the dreary days in the castle.

Zevran and Leliana are among his guards each time he walks the streets of Denerim. At first, he'd outright refused bringing anyone but his friends, but eventually, the two of them had persuaded him that, as king, it was important he stay safe. It is only a precaution, they had told him, and by now, he was used to the shuffle of armed men at his side where he goes. It's the gazes, the ever-present eyes on him that he can't stand, but it is more bearable beneath the sun and in the busy marketplace than it is within the throne room.

But even there, he can't get away from them, because his friends have a worse look in their eyes. Zevran looks distant, sad, when he thinks no one is watching him, not as lively as he used to be. His banter is dull and flat, and Alistair knows the elf thinks he doesn't notice, but he does. Leliana's looks are even worse; there's pity in her expression when she watches him, grief and sympathy and he hates it. He's the King of Ferelden, he lives in a castle, and they've won the battle. Their happily ever after isn't perfect but it's good enough. It makes him irrationally angry when he catches their sadness. He's not married to the woman he loves, and he never wanted to be king, but he's making due, and seriously, they could be a little more cheerful about the situation.

Leliana catches his gaze on her and gives a grin that looks a bit forced. Alistair isn't stupid, he knows when someone is faking, no matter what Morrigan might have said about him before she vanished from their little band without a word to anyone (and at the thought of the witch a memory stirs, panic sets in, there was something about her, something she said before she left that he doesn't remember, a decision to be made and an argument at a gate and-)

"Alistair? You alright?" Leliana's voice chases whatever memory- daydream? - away, forgotten, and he meets her grin, pretending he doesn't see that it's forced.

"Just got lost in thought. It's a nice day out, isn't it?" He hums thoughtfully, enjoying the sunshine and the air, even if the air inside Denerim's city walls isn't quite fresh. "I know all of the Wardens are busy, but it's a pity she couldn't join us." He's learned not to say his Warden's name- it makes people look at him strangely and he knows he shouldn't be talking about another woman so much when he's married to the queen, so he doesn't bring her up much- but Leliana will know who she means.

"A pity," she agrees, glancing away to study some street performers and his attention is diverted by the crowds again before she can say more.

He knows even as he turns away that the eyes are on him again, and it drives him insane.

* * *

He picks flowers in the royal gardens for her, when he gets the whim. He remembers the way she blushed when he'd first offered her one and how stupid he'd felt right up until the point when she'd smiled more widely than he'd ever seen. And then joked about him feeling thorny before admitting that she thought it was the loveliest thing anyone had done for her.

He'd made it a habit after that, secretly leaving flowers in her tent, any spot of color that miraculously survived the Blight. Just because the war was over didn't mean he couldn't keep making her happy, right? Whenever the Wardens came to visit the castle to report on their progress- rebuilding was a significant effort, he was told, and he knew that was why she wasn't around much but he still missed her- he made sure to leave vases full of cut flowers in the entrance hall, despite the odd looks that servants gave him. She'd know they were from him, and when she eventually found him, she would give him that warm smile reserved for himself alone. She never failed to acknowledge his tokens, no matter how awkward or stupid he felt about them.

But it never used to take so long for her to show up and thank him, and he remembers a dragon and a gate and has to ignore the sliver of panic that slips down his spine when he thinks too long about it. Focusing on finding the perfect rose makes it all slip away again, which is fine with him.

* * *

"They're acting oddly," he tells her now and then. "Zev and Leli." He'd never call them that to their faces, but the nicknames she'd given their merry band of misfits still stick with him when they're alone. He grins a little. "And I mean more oddly than usual for an ex-assassin and a bard who is also part of the chantry," he adds as he crosses into the other room to change his stiff tunic into something more comfortable. Her laugh is so familiar to him he doesn't even have to be with her to hear it.

"It wouldn't kill you to go out there sometimes," he continues once he's decent and turns back toward the front room. "The people would love to see you. I know you don't like attention, but you should see the way they cheer when I go out there. Think how much they'd like to show their appreciation to the real hero." But she's not there, only Anora, and she's giving him an odd look. He pretends not to notice the fear in it, or the way her hands grip the chair, white-knuckled.

"Alistair, I think we should-"

"Where'd she go?" he demanded. A pained look crosses the beautiful woman's face, and Anora is beautiful certainly, but nothing compared to his Warden. Besides, the queen's presence always sends his lover away, and he knows his fellow Warden would hate the gossip about him- about them- if anyone were to catch them together, but it grates on his nerves whenever he has to spend his time in the company of one who is not her.

"Alistair... Hasn't this gone on long enough?" Her voice is tentative, almost afraid, and for some reason it makes him angry. He knows he needs her to stop talking. "We have been married for months now, and the kingdom is prospering. The war is over and-... Perhaps it's time for you to-" He raised a hand, a glower starting on his face.

"Politics are the only reason we are together, Anora. Why anyone would want their king to have married his dead brother's wife is beyond me, but it's done and we don't need to pretend there's something here that's not." She opens her mouth, then shuts it, gaze falling to the floor. He turns to leave without another word, seeking solitude.

It's only when he's alone that he can be with _her_, after all.

* * *

He doesn't think of the final battle. At all. He keeps it out of his thoughts. In fact, if anyone ever mentioned it, he'd probably he say he didn't remember much of it, which was true. There'd been so much happening, so many darkspawn, so little hope... It was all a bit of a blur really. Or so he told himself.

His friends never bring it up. People would start to mention the fight, then glance at him guiltily and fall silent. Because he's a Warden? Maybe. They probably thought it would stir up traumatic memories or something. But they won! What could be traumatic about that?

"I'm not the one you have to worry about," he'd joke easily if he felt friendly enough with the speaker, grinning and scratching the back of his head. "I didn't fight the dragon, remember?" A tug of bitterness in his voice catches him by surprise, an ache hollows out his chest.

"You're the brave one," he tells her. "You're the hero. I mean how many people do you know that could go up against a bloody dragon and live?" His voice cracks, his joke falling flat.

She doesn't answer, but that's okay. He was getting used to the sound of his own voice anyway.

* * *

There are nights when he doesn't wake up screaming. Her presence at his side, her voice in his thoughts is sometimes enough to keep the nightmares at bay, to keep out the dark memories of the final battle that he never thinks about but always dreams of from pressing in on him. But those nights are few and far between.

He grasps at the air, trying to stop _something _that he can't quite recall, that he _won't _recall_- _Morrigan leaving, a Warden's sacrifice, the dragon exploding at the top of a tower_, being left at theMAKERDAMNEDGATE- _and his mind slips for a few awful moments between reality and nightmare_. _ The queen cowers in the corner- because someone had eventually spread the word that the royal couple wasn't sharing a bed and rumors had started and Maker forbid the people of Ferelden suspected that their beloved king and queen were less than loving with each other- her face white, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he roars at Anora for not being _her _because _she _is the only one that belongs in his bed and he _knows_ she was there when he fell asleep.

But in those moments of insanity and clarity, in the stillness and loneliness of the darkest time of night, he also knows she was not. In the dead of night he cannot pretend hard enough to see her at his side again. He can only remember a dragon and sacrifice and a gate.

* * *

_There was a time... when I thought we'd be together forever. _

She doesn't answer.


End file.
